


The Police Will Never Find Him Through Me

by orange_8_hands



Series: Sweetheart [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abandonment, Anger, Gen, Impala Fic, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 15:45:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orange_8_hands/pseuds/orange_8_hands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Impala watches...the Impala worries</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Police Will Never Find Him Through Me

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on [my LJ](http://orange-8-hands.livejournal.com/1349.html), July 2011.

I do not like the angel.

The brother, at least, opens the doors. The brother may not know much but he knows entrances and exists, he knows to follow smooth road, he knows there must be care in maintaining. He is helpless and useless much of the time, regulated to holding tools and not using them, but he does know the importance of having them.

(We do not speak of the space between Dean driving to his death and Dean crooning to me hello. In this, the brother and I agree – it may not happen again. The brother plastered me with tears but never stroked my sadness away; my loyalty will never belong to him.)

The angel blinks into existence, and I feel Dean fight the jerk of a wheel. I make it as easy on him as possible. They exchange words, and I feel Dean’s hands tighten, tighten, tighten and go white. I purr and he relaxes slightly, patting me softly, an absent minded gesture of fondness.

I take them to the Land of Broken Lives. The angel has gone and the brother jumps out quickly, but Dean pauses and promises a good wash in the morning. I can feel the dots of dead things lining my windows, and hope he has time. Dean does not break promises unless he must, always with a sad “ _sorry Baby_ ,” and I know he is, know it relaxes him as much as me.

I tell time by the heat of day and the shade of night. I tell time by the nozzle pressed inside and fingers running over my parts to look for any tears. I tell time by the music I play, the songs and more the tap tap tapping of Dean’s long, graceful fingers. (Sometimes he sings to me, and I feel the smooth slide of peace as his voice joins me, as I carry him over long stretches of highway, as I rumble in tune with him.)

Sometimes he eats, which I don’t enjoy. Sometimes he bleeds, and that’s even worse. _Sorry, baby_ , he says, and tries not to drip.

I take him everywhere. (At least until the angel comes, and leaves me behind, always trying to separate us, but Dean comes back, has him bring him back, and Dean pats my shoulder for disappearing. _I’d rather go by you_ , he tells me, and the angel pretends not to understand, says, _But I am quicker, and more reliable_.) 

He is too tired, always. _Please, sweetheart, just a little longer_ , he tells me, asks me, and I take him to the next job and the next job and the next, but really I just want to take him to a lake, to a stadium, to a field so he and the brother can lie out on me and rest. 

He brings others to me. The first time, a girl with black hair and brown skin, and he fumbled until he clenched his fingers into my seats and let go. Last, there was a different angel (the possibility of an angel), and after as they lay tangled together she said, “I like your car.” (A shame, then, when she started to appear like the other one, but my memory is long and I give her the curtsey of forgiveness.)

 _I don’t know what to do_ , he whispers to me, and all I can do is go forward.      

Dean twists my dial and a song plays out as he drives me over a field. The brother-as-a-different-brother hurts him until I’m the only thing holding up his weight, and so I flick the sun in his eyes and push memories into his mind until he goes away.

Dean falls back into me, and I can feel the weight of nightmares descend on him.  The angel flickers in and out, and as he leaves Dean’s foot slips off the gas.  

 _Let me take you away_ , I silently beg, and he presses down again.


End file.
